


Grabbing a Cuppa

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Between Seasons/Series, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donovan learns something unexpected when she goes for a cuppa.  Set theoretically between Series 1 and Series 2; no spoilers for Series 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grabbing a Cuppa

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: Written for the July 1, 2011 challenge over at Watson's Woes. 
> 
> PROMPT: Watson injury (any severity), from a different POV than Holmes (meaning Mrs. Hudson, Scotland Yard, Baker Street Irregular, The Villain (whoever he/she may be), etc.

He was doing it again. Donovan tried to hold onto her temper as the Freak launched into yet another scathing diatribe, lecturing Lestrade about what an idiot he was, what idiot they _all_ were, and why couldn’t they see how blindingly obvious it was from her _hair spray_ that the victim had been having an affair with her best friend’s sister. Or something to that effect. Her boss took it in his usual stride, letting the insults roll off him and just asking for more details. Donovan, however, had just about had it up to here.

“I’m going to grab a cuppa,” she announced abruptly, cutting off the Freak in the midst of yet another disdainful sentence. “You want one?” she asked Lestrade.

Lestrade looked grateful for the interruption. “That’d be great, Sally, thanks.”

“John, I’ll want three sugars instead of the usual two,” the Freak said, not even bothering to look up from his examination of one of the crime scene photos.

Donovan had practically forgotten Dr. Watson was in Lestrade’s office, too – no mean feat given how small it was and how jammed in they all were. But the Freak’s flatmate had a gift for silence and blending into the background. Not to mention the patience of a saint, or maybe a massive masochistic martyr streak. Instead of objecting, the doctor merely followed Donovan out of the office.

For the thousandth time, Donovan wondered why on earth Dr. Watson tolerated the Freak. Not just tolerated him, but actually seemed to _like_ the monster. For once, she decided to indulge her curiosity. “Why do you put up with that?” she asked him as they made their way towards the break room.

The doctor shrugged, one of his gentle half-smiles crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Actually, I was glad of an excuse to not look at those photographs any more. Sherlock knew that, of course.”

Donovan blinked. Was Dr. Watson implying that the Freak’s presumptuously ordering him out of the office to fetch tea was actually some obscure act of _consideration_? And why would those photographs bother the doctor, anyway? She’d seen the man examine much more gruesome corpses up close and personal. Why would the pictures disturb him? And really, could he actually think that the Freak gave a damn if –

A basso voice roared out a vile, garbled series of curses. Donovan refocused her attention just in time to see an enormous man throw off two constables and bolt directly towards them, obviously trying to make for the door on the far side of the room. He moved frighteningly quickly for such a huge guy, and his eyes were utterly crazed. There was no time to get out of his path.

Not that Donovan intended to do any such thing. Yes, he was probably double her weight, and well over two meters tall, but she had to stop him if she could, or at least try.

The bloke swung at her, one gigantic fist piling directly towards her face. She slapped it aside and drove her full weight into his midriff. It was like hitting a brick wall. He managed to deflect her follow-up blow to his groin and tried to grapple with her. She skipped back, knowing that if he got a good grip on her, she was done.

Abruptly, the man shrieked in pain as Dr. Watson kicked his knee at just the right angle to force the joint to bend the wrong direction. Donovan had forgotten all about him in the sudden fight, but there he was, rolling with a punch to the jaw and then twisting up one giant arm behind the man’s back as the man staggered and pitched forward.

The shock of the mild-mannered, jumper-clad doctor taking out a fellow twice his size, looking every inch a combat-hardened veteran, and nothing like the easygoing Freak-shadow, would have to wait. Donovan hooked out the man’s one remaining good leg from under him, and promptly pinned the man’s legs as he fell to the ground.

“Got him?” she gasped, half-question, half-statement.

“For now,” Dr. Watson grunted, keeping his hold somehow despite the huge man’s flailing attempts to dislodge him from atop his back. “Where the hell is someone with a pair of handcuffs?”

In reality, Donovan knew that the fight had taken hardly any time at all, and that her fellow officers were even now rushing to assist, mere seconds away. But in the subjective rush of the struggle, it felt like forever before two more men joined the fray, throwing in their weight to help subdue the frenzied man. And in the time-slowed haze, she clearly saw the moment where one of the assisting officers lost his hold on one beefy wrist for just a moment. Just the tiniest slip-up, but it was enough to let the man shove his hand against the floor and heave-and-twist with enough leverage to throw both him and Dr. Watson off of his torso, sending them flying. Donovan barely managed to retain her own grip on the man’s legs as he lurched half-upright.

More men piled on, and finally someone got handcuffs on those giant wrists, and someone else managed a half-headlock around his neck. The man stopped fighting, subdued as much by the sheer weight of bodies pressing him down as the restraints. Once she was sure that he was secured, Donovan gratefully relinquished her hold on his legs and got to her feet with a grunt.

“Nice kick,” she panted, looking around for Dr. Watson with a silly, adrenaline-fueled grin on her face. That smile froze as she saw the smaller man crouched down against the side of a desk, his face white and drawn with pain. She immediately crouched down next to him. “Oh shit – where are you hurt?”

“Just…knocked my bad shoulder,” Dr. Watson gasped. “Bad landing. It’ll…pass. M’okay.”

“Okay like hell,” Donovan muttered. She wasn’t a doctor, but she recognized a man in serious pain when she saw one. “Will ice help?”

Dr. Watson nodded a fraction, shoulder held rigid against any movement.

“There’s some in the break room. I’ll get –"

“John!” That was the Freak’s voice, unmistakably; too loud, too clipped, too posh. And yet it wasn’t the Freak’s voice at all, because Donovan could hear the concern in the cry. Moments later she was nearly shoved aside as the tall, gangly-limbed nuisance knelt by Dr. Watson, eerily pale eyes flickering over every inch of him while long-fingered hands gently touched first his chin, then the hand the doctor had pressed to his bad shoulder. “John,” he repeated. “How bad is it? I can see it’s the shoulder, and you’ve a bruise coming on your jaw, too…” His voice trailed off in uncharacteristic uncertainty.

Dr. Watson – John – mustered a faint smile, clearly trying to reassure the Fr – no, his _friend_ , and all at once Donovan felt like an intruder. “I’ll get that ice,” she muttered, and started to rise.

The Freak – Sherlock – fixed her with one of those stares, the ones where it felt like he was peeling her brain open from the inside. At the same time, she felt like for once he was actually seeing _her_ , not just a Sergeant of the Yard or some random bit player in the drama of his life, but an actual person. A slight smile warmed his features. “Thank you, Sergeant Donovan,” he murmured.

“Yeah, thanks Sally.” Until he panted the words, Donovan had no idea that Dr. Watson knew her first name.

She smiled back. “Least I can do, John. Seeing you take down that guy was a rare treat.”

A rare treat indeed, but nothing half so rare as witnessing Sherlock Holmes fuss over his friend, arguing strenuously in favor of taking John to the A&E. If he kept this up, she might just have to come up with a new nickname for him. With Dr. Watson around, Sherlock Holmes no longer seemed quite so freakish.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 1, 2011


End file.
